


Pointy Things

by madame_alexandra



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5768092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_alexandra/pseuds/madame_alexandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Leia sustains a minor injury on a routine supply run, Han discovers one of the lingering effects of her time on the Death Star. Post ANH; Pre ESB. About a year after Battle of Yavin. Han/Leia; teensy bit of Chewie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pointy Things

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: a quick piece addressing some of Leia's residual trauma. and allusions to her heritage.

**_ Pointy Things _ **

* * *

 

He found out about her thing with needles on an ordinary supply run.

 Ordinary, as in nothing happened. In fact, the quick hop from the Alliance outpost to the designated planet – a lush world, called Naboo – was so uneventful, and so run-of-the-mill, that Han Solo was pretty sure she’d gotten hurt just to remind them both their lives were still perpetually at stake.

 Things were going too smoothly, so naturally, in the absence of a hoard of Stormtroopers, she got herself bitten by some native creature of the planet that their contacts were keeping as a pet.

  _Weird_ beings, Gungans. Even weirder was the human male aiding their little enclave of resistance in the hidden places of the planet. She was an old woman called Sabe, with sharp eyes, who seemed unable to draw her gaze away from Leia – even touching her hair as if she knew her.

 “This planet makes me feel violated,” Leia said faintly, watching apprehensively as the _Falcon_ was loaded – then, the thing bit her.

 Han took that as their cue to go, while Chewbacca wrangled the thing off of her, angrily howling at the Gungans to control their pets better – Chewie was violently protective of the Princess; you’d think he owed _her_ the life debt.

  _[I owe anyone you fall in love with a life debt],_ Chewie had teased once, and Han hadn’t spoken to him for an entire day.

 Chewie only got more smug when Han got riled up over those jokes; the more Han told him he was a mite-infested fuzzball with a serious brain defect, the more Chewie demanded to know why they were still sticking around if Han hadn’t caught what he so cutely dubbed “the Alderaanian flu.”

 But the needles, the needles – back to the needle thing. Han dragged Leia aboard, securing everything, waiting for Chewie; he didn’t have a word of goodbye for their contacts, while Leia kept a blank face.

 “It’s not bad,” she said, as blood stained the neat white blouse she had on.

 “Great,” Han groused, glaring at the blossoming red as he revved the engines. “Your handlers are gonna kill me.”

 “My _handlers_?” she snapped.

 “Mon Mothma and the rest of them,” he muttered. Under his breath, he mimicked the way they always spoke down to him – don’t _hurt_ the Princess, don’t _touch_ the Princess, the Princess is _naïve,_ don’t _confuse_ the Princess –

 As if the only thing on his mind was putting the moves on the Princess. They didn’t get him enough credit.

  _Sometimes_ he thought about other things.

 Sometimes he thought about dismembering Threepio.

 ‘Sides, she was the one who was always volunteering to go on supply runs – on missions, on anything. She wasn’t one to sit around, and despite how dramatic and life-threatening his first introduction to the Rebellion was, Han realized toppling an empire was really a lot of sitting around and waiting for a miraculous one in a million opportunity to appear.

 Chewie closed the ramp, growling something about the animal being poisonous; Leia looked at her wounded hand – ripped skin, broken nails, scraps, cuts, raw flesh. She looked at it blankly, unfazed. With Chewie at the helm, Han got up, beckoning.

 “C’mon,” he ordered, in his rough way. “It turnin’ green or anything?”

 “I don’t think it’s poisonous,” she said, following him quickly to the crew quarters.

 “Sit,” he grunted, crouching down to get the medical supply kit. He rummaged around in it a moment as she sat down on a cot, holding her hand gingerly. “Good thing you’re not squeamish,” he said grimly.

 He came over and sat down – too close, she thought, but then she reminded herself he was probably more focused on fixing the wound than anything else. He pulled her hand towards him, and rested it on his thigh.

 She pulled it back.

 “Nice try, Captain.”

 “Don’t get excited, Princess,” he retorted.

 “Touching your leg doesn’t excite me.”

 He stopped rummaging through the kit, and turned to give her a pointed look.

 “Then slide the hand a little higher, Your Worship,” he drawled.

 Flushing bright pink, she scowled at him.

 “You – are so – I don’t know why I – you –

He grinned.

 “Give me that hand, Your Eloquence, I’m not gonna try anything funny,” he swore, holding out his palm.

 She obeyed, and he set out some cloth on his knee, placing her hand there.

 “’Kay,” he muttered. “Not too deep – bacta gel’s a given,” he said to himself. “Better give it some antiseptic just in case it’s got somethin’ weird in it’s teeth.”

 She winced when he cleaned off the blood with a cold cloth, still a little mesmerized by it – she was fascinated by her own injuries these days; seeing herself bleed made her feel human. More often than not, she got through the days in a robotic state of being. Leia turned her head to watch him in time to see him flick a needle and turn it towards her fingers. He seemed to be about to stick it in the small v-shape between smallest finger and her ring finger.

 He was unprepared for her reaction. The needle was in his hand; then the needle was shattered on the floor, sharp, dangerous silver rolling around the floor of the cabin, treacherous for bare feet.

 Han swore, shaking his hand – antiseptic was running down his arm.

 He looked up with a furious glare, but before he could say anything –

 “What are you doing? Were you going to stick me with that? _Don’t_ ,” she shrieked at him, inching away. She was so far away; she was crammed into the corner. “ _Don’t_ ,” she shrieked again, her hand up.

 Stunned, he just stared at her – Gods, her face wasn’t pink anymore, it was pale as death; he could damn near see her skull through the sickly translucence that shone on her cheeks.

 “It was just antiseptic – “ he started, turning towards her.

 “ _Don’t come near me,”_ she snarled.

 Chewie roared something violent from down the hall, demanding to know what the screaming was about.

 Leia covered her ears.

 “Chewie,” Han bellowed. “Stop shouting.”

 Immediately, he regretted it, and winced. Leia closed her eyes, breathing as if the oxygen was broken, and she couldn’t get enough. She shook her head.

 Gingerly, Han moved aside the kit in his lap, and stood. He hesitated.

 “I’m gonna go tell Chewie you’re okay,” he said slowly – the Wookiee would storm down here to rip his head off if he thought Han had done something to Leia. “Are – you okay?” he asked warily, eyeing her uncertainly.

 She didn’t answer, and he started to leave the room.

 “No,” she said hoarsely, looking up. “No, don’t leave me alone,” she pleaded unexpectedly. “Don’t leave me alone in here. It’s still – it’s on the floor.”

 Hands hanging at his sides numbly, Han stared some more, confused. His brow furrowed.

 “It – the needle?” he asked.

 She nodded.

 He looked at her for a stunned moment, and then, without saying another word, he got down on his hands and knees, and started feeling around the floor. He slid his hands around like a blind man, his jaw set in confusion, in annoyance – and maybe a little bit of fear – checking every part of the cabin until his nail slammed up against something that stuck him, and he swore.

 He picked up the needle, and closed it tightly in his palm, sharp ends pointing out either side of his hand. He started to get up with the loose part of the syringe, and then thought better of it.

 “Uh, Your – Princess?” he began, making a face at his stuttering.

 She made a strangled noise that probably meant ‘Yes, Han?’

 “I’ve got the needle in my hand, and I’m gonna stand up,” he told her, feeling a little silly. “You gonna lose it on me again?”

 In a small voice, she said:

 “Please just put it away.”

 Frowning, Han crawled over to a different area of the cabin and hid it somewhere, tucking it into someplace and reminding himself to trash it later. He got up, and went back over to the med box. He reached into it a minute, poking things around awkwardly, and looked over at her.She’d sat up a little, her knees drawn up, hands braced behind her. Her eyes looked red, distracted, her face still that sick pale – come to think of it, it was the same way she’d looked for days on Yavin – _Yavin_ , after the Death Star –

 Realization sunk in.

 “Vader stuck you with stuff, didn’t he?” Han asked abruptly – callously, but he didn’t know how else to say it.

 But something about the way he didn’t beat around the bush spoke to her, and she lifted her eyes, blinking the hollow blackness out of them, meeting his. She stared at him, unblinking, and then silently nodded.

 Han looked back down at the med kit. He picked up some bacta gel again, a soft bandage, and some numbing cream. He held it all in one hand, and then moved towards her.

 He sat down near her feet, and waited.

 “You’ve got to let me wrap it at least, Leia,” he said.

 She pushed her feet forward, and shifted, moving around until she was sitting next to him. Her shoulder brushed his as she carefully handed her hand over, and he saw her wince at the sight of the mangled bite.

 “Shouldn’t go without the antiseptic,” he ventured. “We don’t know what kind of stuff’s in the bite.”

 She started to pull her hand back.

 “Don’t stick me with a needle – don’t _hurt_ me,” she said immediately. “It won’t work. I won’t talk.”

 He waited a moment, utterly out of his element, and then he reached for her hand delicately, very gently and slowly pulling it back.

 “Leia,” he said, using her name again. “I’m not asking you anything,” he went on in a calm voice. “You’re on the _Falcon_.”

 She closed her eyes; her voice shook.

 “I know,” she answered. “Please, Han. I can’t – they – I can’t handle them. Even seeing them, it…affects me.”

 That went without saying, at this point. Han nodded. He looked down intently at the hand; he sure as hell wasn’t going to push that on her, if her reaction was that kriffing awful. Whatever had happened – whatever had been done to her – had clearly been more traumatic than he’d ever let himself imagine. He spent a moment applying numbing cream, and then cleared his throat.

 “If you can’t – uh, be around the pointy things,” he said diplomatically. “How’d you get medical attention after – well,” he faltered, wary. “They kept you in the hospital for two weeks on Yavin.”

 How had she been treated, if she reacted like this to one of the most common medical supplies?

 Leia had smiled faintly at his euphemism. She clamped her teeth together, debating whether or not to answer – she didn’t even know why she’d wanted to go on this stupid supply mission, except it was nearing the anniversary of Alderaan and – and she needed to be occupied –

 “I refused any – pointy thing – treatment,” she admitted finally.

 “Bone knitters?” Han asked – she had to have had broken bones –

 Leia shook her head.

 “I had them set the old way,” she confessed hoarsely. “The first time they tried to give me a shot, I, I – “

 She’d started screaming. She’d been so violently sick, the medics were astonished, frozen, unsure of what to do; until Rieekan had burst in and ordered them to get away from her until he could calm her down. Han – Han didn’t need to know about all that.

 Leia fell silent.

 Han started wrapping the bandage. He kept his eyes focused, and to fill the silence, he said:

 “Why don’t you like Naboo?”

 She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. She shrugged, trying not to think about the storm raging in her stomach, trying to breath normally, trying not to burst into tears.

 She hated needles. Hated them, hated them, hated them –

 “It felt strange,” she whispered. “I feel like I belong there. But I’ve only been to Naboo – once, when I was very small. My father took me – we visited a grave, a friend of his from the Republic,” she broke off, turning her head away.

Her throat locked up.

 Han tied off the bandage. He paused, and then turned her hand over, and ran his palm over hers, slipping his fingers into hers, squeezing tightly enough for her to know he was there, gently enough so as not to hurt the injury.

 He lifted her hand.

 “You spent _months_ in pain, healing the old way, because you can’t stand needles anymore?” he asked.

 She flinched – he was floored, a bit in awe. The pain she must have endured just to avoid the quick fixes liquid miracles in needles could give her – to suffer like that, just to avoid flashbacks.

 Han swallowed.

 She said:

 “I couldn’t feel anything after Alderaan.”

 Her fingers twitched in his. She didn’t know why she’d told him that. She closed her eyes, her lashes heavy, burning. She pressed her lips together. She wanted to go home, but she couldn’t – she had no real definition of the word home anymore. When she got that feeling, that desperate need to be home again, she –

 Well, lately, she usually sought out Han, and picked a fight.

 Han lifted her hand, tugging on her lightly. When she turned her head, and caught his eye, she was surprised at the sage glint she saw there, and the words that came out of his mouth:

 “You can’t let him have you like that, Leia,” he said seriously.

 “Have me?” she gasped painfully. “ _Have_ me – “

 “You take the prolonged pain of an injury for months because of what he did to you on that battle station?” Han interrupted. “You suffer like that? The torture never stops. You never escape the cell,” he said flatly. “You can’t let him win like that.”

 Her lips parted. It wasn’t that simple – she couldn’t just flip a switch and end the trauma, change what had happened –

 “It’s a disorder, Han,” she told him desperately. “It’s psychological. And I,” she hesitated. “I like the pain,” she said dully. “I’m so numb – I’m numb. All the time. I want to feel…something.”

He put her hand on his chest suddenly. He pressed –

 “Can you feel that?”

 She felt the steady rhythm of his heart, skipping under his shirt, warm, alive, firm and reliable. She swallowed, fingers drawn to the hypnotic beat, eyes on his chest – then his jaw, his lips, his nose – his eyes.

 “Yes,” she said, barely audible.

 He pressed her hand a little harder.

 “Next time you need a shot, come find me,” he said gruffly. “I’ll give it to you,” he said, handing her hand back.

 She clutched hers together, unsure why he’d done that – unsure why she could still feel the rhythm in her fingertips. What was going on here – with her, with him? _Oh_ – she thought desperately – _what has been going on?_

 Why hadn’t he left? Why didn’t she want him to? Why did she volunteer to go where he went, even though he made her want to punch walls and kick things over?

 “And why do you think you’ll have any luck, Captain?” she asked, drawn in by his confidence.

 He shrugged, and gave her a winning grin.

 “’Cause with my stunning good looks, you’d never notice a puny needle.”

 To his relief, she smiled at him, shaking her head.

 “Has anyone ever loved you as much as you love yourself?”

 “Not yet,” he quipped.

 There was something strangely prophetic about him saying that, to her.

 He fell silent, and she fell silent.

 “I’m gonna go assure Chewie I didn’t hurt you,” Han decided dryly, standing up.

 He was at the door when she said:

 “Han?”

 He turned.

She didn’t know how to express what she was thinking – he hadn’t treated her like she was diseased after she freaked out; he hadn’t mocked her when she needed him to hide the needle from her site – he hadn’t demanded to know why she was acting so ridiculous when she confused her surroundings. He had no trauma training, no experience – or she assumed he didn’t – with victims – and yet –

 “Thank you,” she said in a small voice, hoping that conveyed her relief that he seemed to still respect her, even after such an outburst.

 He shrugged, reaching up to rub his jaw nervously. Complimentary as he was about himself, he didn’t like being treated so cordially like that; he wasn’t use to it.

He didn’t know how to respond. So, what came out of his mouth was:

 “Look, if I’d known they were – torturing you,” he said bluntly, “doing stuff to you – that badly,” he went on. “I would’ve done the rescue for free.”

 He felt like an idiot the minute he said it.

 But, she smiled at him. He gave her a wry smile back, and turned to leave – really leave this time, to give her a moment to sort herself out.

 In the hallway, he slumped against the wall, lowering his head. Swallowing hard, he stared at his feet – if seeing a needle could do that to her, what were her dreams like when she didn’t take the sleeping pills she brought, when she had to share a room? How did she feel when she saw white armor, black helmets, grey metal walls – was her life a living hell, consumed by triggers?

 He lifted his head, taking a deep breath.

 He was glad he found out about her thing with needles.

 It taught him to never again, even for a moment, think of her as nothing more than spoiled, pampered royalty with a pretty face.

**Author's Note:**

> originally published on fanfiction.net under the same pen name. there is a companion piece called 'Nurse Solo.'


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